When the glue was brought, he opened his cash box, with a look of faint pining hope in his face, that it was very mournful to see, and began to arrange the fragments of the mask, on the bed before him. They were shattered past all mending; but still he moved them about here and there, with his trembling hands, murmuring sadly, all the while, that he knew it was very difficult, but felt sure he should succeed at last. Sometimes he selected the pieces wrongly; stuck, perhaps, two or three together with the glue; and then had to pull them apart again. Even when he chose the fragments properly, he could not find enough that would join sufficiently well to reproduce only one poor quarter of the mask in its former shape. Still he went on, turning over piece after piece of the broken plaster, down to the very smallest, patiently and laboriously, with the same false hope of success, and the same vain perseverance under the most disheartening failure, animating him for hours together. He had begun early in the morning—he had not given up, when Annie returned from her interview with Mr Colebatch. To know how utterly fruitless all his efforts must be, and still to see him so anxiously continuing them in spite of failure, was a sight to despair over, and to tremble at, indeed.
At last, Annie entreated him to put the fragments away in the box, and take a little rest. He would listen to nobody else; but he listened to her, and did what she asked; saying that his head was not clear enough for the work of repairing, today; but that he felt certain he should succeed tomorrow. When he had locked the box, and put it under his pillow, he laid back, and fell into a sleep directly.
Such was his condition! Every idea was now out of his mind, but the idea of restoring the mask of Shakespeare. Divert him from that; and he either fell asleep, or sat up vacant and speechless. It was suspension, not loss of the faculties, with him. The fibre of his mind relaxed with the breaking of the beloved possession to which it had been attached. Those still, cold, plaster features had been his thought by day, his dream by night; in them, his deep and beautiful devotion to Shakespeare— beautiful as an innate poetic faith that had lived through every poetic privation of life—had found its dearest outward manifestation. All about that mask, he had unconsciously hung fresh votive offerings of pride and pleasure, and humble happiness, almost with every fresh hour. It had been the one great achievement of his life, to get it; and the one great determination of his life, to keep it. And now it was broken! The dearest household god, next to his grandchild, that the poor actor had ever had to worship, his own eyes had seen lying shattered on the floor!
It was this—far more than the fright produced by the burglary, —that had altered him, as he was altered now.
There was no rousing him. Everybody tried, and everybody failed. He went on patiently, day after day, at his miserably hopeless task of joining the fragments of the plaster; and always had some excuse for failure, always some reason for beginning the attempt anew. Annie could influence him in everything else, —for his heart, which was all hers, had escaped the blow that had stunned his mind, —but, on any subject connected with the mask, her interference was powerless.
The good Squire came to try what he could do—came every day; and joked, entreated, lectured, and advised, in his own hearty, eccentric manner; but the old man only smiled faintly; and forgot what had been said to him, as soon as the words were out of the sayer’s mouth. Mr Colebatch, reduced to his last resources, hit on what he considered a first-rate stratagem. He privately informed Annie, that he would insist on his whole establishment of servants, with Mrs Buddie, the housekeeper, at their head, learning elocution; so as to employ Mr Wray again, in a duty he was used to perform. ‘None of those infernal Tidbury people will learn,’ said the kind old Squire; ‘so my servants shall make a class for him, with Mrs Buddie at the top, to keep them in order. Set him teaching in his own way; and he must come round—he must from force of habit!’ But he did not. They told him a class of new pupils was waiting for him; he just answered he was very glad to hear it; and forgot all about the matter the moment afterwards.
The doctor endeavoured to help them. He tried stimulants, and tried sedatives; he tried keeping his patient in bed, and tried keeping him up; he tried blistering, and tried cupping; and then he gave over; saying that Mr Wray must certainly have something on his mind, and that physic and regimen were of no use. One word of comfort, however, the doctor still had to speak. The physical strength of the old man had failed him very little, as yet. He was always ready to be got out of bed, and dressed; and seemed glad when he was seated in his chair. This was a good sign; but there was no telling how long it might last.
It had lasted a whole week—a long, blank melancholy winter’s week! And now, Christmas Day was fast coming; coming for the first time as a day of mourning, to the little family who, in spite of poverty and all poverty’s hardening disasters, had hitherto enjoyed it happily and lovingly together, as the blessed holiday of the whole year! Ah! how doubly heavy-hearted poor Annie felt, as she entered her bedroom for the night, and remembered that that day fortnight would be Christmas Day!
She was beginning to look wan and thin already. It is not joy only, that shows soonest and plainest in the young: grief—alas that it should be so—shares, in this world, the same privilege: and Annie now looked, as she felt, sick at heart. That day had brought no change: she had left the old man for the night, and left him no better. He had passed hours again, in trying to restore the mask; still instinctively exhibiting from time to time some fondness and attention towards his grandchild—but just as hopelessly vacant to every other influence as ever.
Annie listlessly sat down on the one chair in her small bedroom, thinking (it was her only thought now, ) of what new plan could be adopted to rouse her grandfather on the morrow; and still mourning over the broken mask, as the one fatal obstacle to every effort she could try. Thus she sat for some minutes, languid and dreamy—when, suddenly, a startling and a wonderful change came over her, worked from within. She bounded up from her chair, as dead-pale and as dead-still as if she had been struck to stone. Then, a moment after, her face flushed crimson, she clasped her hands violently together, and drew her breath quick. And then, the paleness came once more—she trembled all over—and knelt down by the bedside, hiding her face in her hands.
When she rose again, the tears were rolling fast over her cheeks. She poured out some water, and washed them away. A strange expression of firmness—a glow of enthusiasm, beautiful in its brightness and purity— overspread her face, as she took up her candle, and left the room.
She went to the very top of the house, where the carpenter slept; and knocked at his door.
‘Are you not gone to bed yet, Martin?’—she whispered—(the old joke of calling him ‘Julius Caesar’ was all over now!)
He opened the door in astonishment, saying he had only that moment got upstairs.
‘Come down to the drawing-room, Martin,’ she said; looking brightly at him—almost wildly, as he thought. ‘Come quick! I must speak to you at once.’
He followed her downstairs. When they got into the drawing-room, she carefully closed the door; and then said: —
‘A thought has come to me, Martin, that I must tell you. It came to me just now, when I was alone in my room; and I believe God sent it!’
She beckoned to him to sit by her side; and then began to whisper in his ear—quickly, eagerly, without pause.
His face began to turn pale at first, as hers had done, while he listened. Then it flushed, then grew firm like hers, but in a far stronger degree. When she had finished speaking, he only said, it was a terrible risk every way—repeating ‘every way’ with strong emphasis; but that she wished it; and therefore it should be done.
As they rose to separate, she said tenderly and gravely: —
‘You have always been very good to me, Martin: be good, and be a brother to me more than ever now—for now I am trusting you with all I have to trust.’
Years afterwards when they were married, and when their children were growing up around them, he re
membered Annie’s last look, and Annie’s last words, as they parted that night.
IX
The next morning, when the old man was ready to get out of bed and be dressed, it was not the honest carpenter who came to help him as usual, but a stranger—the landlady’s brother. He never noticed this change. What thoughts he had left, were all preoccupied. The evening before, from an affectionate wish to humour him in the caprice which had become the one leading idea of his life, Annie had bought for him a bottle of cement. And now, he went on murmuring to himself, all the while he was being dressed, about the certainty of his succeeding at last in piecing together the broken fragments of the mask, with the aid of this cement. It was only the glue, he said, that had made him foil hitherto; with cement to aid him, he was quite certain of success.
The landlady and her brother helped him down into the drawing-room. Nobody was there; but on the table, where the breakfast things were laid, was placed a small note. He looked round inquisitively when he first saw that the apartment was empty. Then, the only voice within him that was not silenced—the voice of his heart—spoke, and told him that Annie ought to have been in the room to meet him as usual.
‘Where is she?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Don’t leave me alone with him, James,’ whispered the landlady to her brother, ‘there’s bad news to tell him.’
‘Where is she?’ he reiterated; and his eye got a wild look, as he asked the question for the second time.
‘Pray, compose yourself, sir; and read that letter,’ said the landlady, in soothing tones; ‘Miss Annie’s quite safe, and wants you to read this.’ She handed him the letter.
He struck it away; so fiercely that she started back in terror. Then he cried out violently for the third time:
‘Where is she?’
‘Tell him,’ whispered the landlady’s brother, ‘tell him at once, or you’ll make him worse.’
‘Gone, sir,’ said the woman—’gone away; but only for three days. The last words she said were, tell my grandfather I shall be back in three days; and give him that letter with my dearest love. Oh, don’t look so, sir— don’t look so! She’s sure to be back.’
He was muttering ‘gone’ several times to himself, with a fearful expression of vacancy in his eyes. Suddenly, he signed to have the letter picked up from the ground; tore it open the moment it was given to him; and began to try to read the contents.
The letter was short, and written in very blotted unsteady characters. It ran thus: —
‘Dearest Grandfather, —I never left you before in my life; and I only go now to try and serve you, and do you good. In three days, or sooner, if God pleases, I will come back, bringing something with me that will gladden your heart, and make you love me even better than ever. I dare not tell you where I am going, or what I am going for—you would be so frightened, and would perhaps send after me to fetch me back; but believe there is no danger! And oh, dear dear grandfather, don’t doubt your little Annie; and don’t doubt I will be back as I say, bringing something to make you forgive me for going away without your leave. We shall be so happy again, if you will only wait the three days! He—you know who—goes with me, to take care of me. Think, dear grandfather, of the blessed Christmas time that will bring us all together again, happier than ever! I can’t write any more, but that I pray God to bless and keep you, till we meet again!—ANNIE WRAY.’
He had not read the letter more than half through, when he dropped it, uttering the one word, ‘gone’, in a shrill scream, that it made them shudder to hear. Then, it seemed as if a shadow, an awful, indescribable shadow, were stealing over his face. His fingers worked and fidgeted with an end of the tablecloth close by him; and he began to speak in faint whispering tones.
‘I’m afraid I’m going mad; I’m afraid something’s frightened me out of my wits,’ he murmured, under his breath. ‘Stop! let me try if I know anything. There now! there! That’s the breakfast table: I know that. There’s her cup and saucer; and there’s mine. Yes! and that third place, on the other side, whose is that?—whose, whose, whose? Ah! my God! my God! I am mad! I’ve forgotten that third place!’ He stopped, shivering all over. Then, the moment after, he shrieked out—’Gone! who says she’s gone? It’s a lie; no, no, it’s a cruel joke put upon me. Annie! I won’t be joked with. Come down, Annie! Call her, some of you! Annie! they’ve broken it all to pieces—the plaster won’t stick together again! You can’t leave me, now they’ve broken it all to pieces! Annie! Annie! come and mend it! Annie! little Annie!’
He called on her name for the last time, in tones of entreaty unutterably plaintive; then sank down on a chair, moaning; then became silent—doggedly silent—and fiercely suspicious of everything. In that mood he remained, till his strength began to fail him; and then he let them lead him to the sofa. When he lay down, he fell off quickly into a heavy, feverish slumber.
Ah, Annie! Annie! carefully as you watched him, you knew but little of his illness; you never foreboded such a result of your absence as this; or, brave and loving as your purpose was in leaving him, you would have shrunk from the fatal necessity of quitting his bedside for three days together!
Mr Colebatch came in shortly after the old man had fallen asleep, accompanied by a new doctor—a medical man of great renown, who had stolen a little time from his London practice, partly to visit some relations who lived at Tidbury, and partly to recruit his own health, which had suffered in repairing other people’s. The good Squire, the moment he heard that such assistance as this was accidentally available in the town, secured it for poor old Reuben, without a moment’s delay.
‘Oh, sir!’ said the landlady, meeting them down stairs; ‘he’s been going on in such a dreadful way! What we are to do, I really don’t know.’
‘It’s lucky somebody else does,’ interrupted the Squire, peevishly.
‘But you don’t know, sir, that Miss Annie’s gone—gone without saying where!’
‘Yes, I happen to know that too!’ said Mr Colebatch; ‘I’ve got a letter from her, asking me to take care of her grandfather, while she’s away; and here I am to do what she tells me. First of all, ma’am, let us get into some room, where this gentleman and I can have five minutes’ talk in private.’
‘Now, sir’—said the Squire, when he and the doctor were closeted together in the back parlour—‘the long and the short of the case is this: — A week ago, two infernal housebreakers broke into this house, and found old Mr Wray sitting up alone in the drawing-room. Of course, they frightened him out of his wits; and they stole some trifles too—but that’s nothing. They managed somehow to break a plaster cast of his. There’s a mystery about this cast, that the family won’t explain, and that nobody can find out; but the fact appears to be, that the old man was as fond of his cast as if it was one of his children—a queer thing, you’ll say; but true, sir; true as my name’s Colebatch! Well: ever since, he’s been weak in his mind; always striving to mend this wretched cast, and taking no notice of anything else. This sort of thing has lasted for six or seven days. —And now, another mystery! I get a letter from his granddaughter—the kindest, dearest little thing!—begging me to look after him—you never saw such a lovely, tender-hearted letter!—to look after him, I say, while she’s gone for three days, to come back with a surprise for him that she says will work miracles. She don’t say what surprise— or, where she’s going—but she promises to come back in three days; and she’ll do it! I’d stake my existence on little Annie sticking to her word! Now the question is—till we see her again, and all this precious mystery’s cleared up—what are we to do for the poor old man?—what?—eh?’
‘Perhaps’—said the doctor, smiling at the conclusion of this characteristic harangue—‘perhaps, I had better see the patient, before we say any more.’
‘By George! what a fool I am!’—cried the Squire—‘Of course!—see him directly—this way, doctor: this way!’
They went into the drawing-room. The sufferer was still on the sofa, moving a
nd talking in his sleep. The doctor signed to Mr Colebatch to keep silence; and they sat down and listened.
The old man’s dreams seemed to be connected with some of the later scenes in his life, which had been passed at country towns, in teaching country actors. He was laughing just at this moment.
‘Ho! Ho! young gentlemen’—they heard him say—‘do you call that acting? Ah, dear! dear! we professional people don’t bump against each other on the stage, in that way—it’s lucky you called me in, before your friends came to see you!—Stop, sir! that won’t do! you mustn’t die in that way—fall on your knee first; then sink down—then—Oh, dear! how hard it is to get people to have a proper delivery, and not go dropping their voices, at the end of every sentence. I shall never—never—’
Here the wild words stopped; then altered, and grew sad.
‘Hush! Hush!’—he murmured, in husky, wandering tones—’Silence there, behind the scenes! Don’t you hear Mr Kemble speaking now? listen, and get a lesson, as I do. Ah! laugh away, fools, who don’t know good acting when you see it!—Let me alone! What are you pushing me for? I’m doing you no harm! I’m only looking at Mr Kemble—Don’t touch that book!—it’s my Shakespeare—yes! mine. I suppose I may read Shakespeare if I like, though I am only an actor at a shilling a night!—A shilling a night; —starving wages—Ha! Ha! Ha!—starving wages!’
Again the sad strain altered to a still wilder and more plaintive key.
‘Ah!’ he cried now, ‘don’t be hard with me! Don’t for God’s sake! My wife, my poor dear wife, died only a week ago! Oh, I’m cold! starved with cold here, in this draughty place. I can’t help crying, sir; she was so good to me! But I’ll take care and go on the stage when I’m called to go, if you’ll please not take any notice of me now; and not let them laugh at me. Oh, Mary! Mary! Why has God taken you from me? Ah! why! why! why!’
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